


Stitches for Wishes

by AcquaSole



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Brief Implications of Child Abuse, Coming of Age, F/M, Fluff, Midquel, Misogyny, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Sexism, brief angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcquaSole/pseuds/AcquaSole
Summary: Real life is nothing like in fairytales; sometimes bad things happen to good people for no reason, and hardship can become as common as the rise and fall of the sun. But beauty can be found even in the saddest of times, and love can bloom anywhere from the pages of a storybook to the secret shade of a garden. Written for the Enabler's Fire Emblem Anniversary Gift Exchange.
Relationships: Aless | Ares/Leen | Lene
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18
Collections: Enabler's Gift Exchange





	Stitches for Wishes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arihime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arihime/gifts).



> This is one of the few Genealogy pairings I'm actually invested in because the rest require entire charts to plan and because Genealogy pairings are a giant mess in general. I had a lot of fun writing this, despite my conscious effort to keep this shorter than what I usually write (but longer than my previous gift fic), and to pour in as much love as I can for my dear Arihime. Happy anniversary, guys!

Lene is two when she’s dropped off at the convent. “A dancer,” they say when she’s old enough to ask questions. “She certainly looked like she had to go in a hurry, and awfully sorry to leave you here, but it is what it is.” She’s not old enough to understand the nuns fretting over a lack of bedspace, nor when they say “it’s what has to be done.”

* * *

Lene is six when she stops crying over her mother’s departure, and when she resolves to become a dancer as well. She has grand illusions over a grand reunion, full of laughter and light, like in the storybooks the nuns at the convent read to the orphans before bed. Lene isn’t too attached to them (wants to be) but appreciates their efforts all the same. There are simply too many mouths to feed, too many infants and toddlers wailing for attention, for comfort, for the nuns to be able to spread themselves out evenly amongst them all. Lene cares for them but has resigned herself to the fact that there’s not much affection available for it to feel any better. So she learns to take it all in stride and pretend it doesn’t hurt. 

It feels nice when the nuns praise her for helping with the little ones, though. Lene knows that the babies now look up to her as a reliable big sister who they can run to for cuddles when they can’t go to the nuns. And she also learns to sew all the torn dolls, ripped dresses, and worn canvas booties. A few hours a day are set aside for repairs, and the smile on a child’s face when getting back their prized stuffed bear warms Lene up with a quiet happiness. 

“Big sis, what about you?” Kara, a chubby-cheeked little girl, asks. 

“What do you mean ‘me?’” Lene sets down her needle and thread. “Do you need something?”

“Wanna play ball?”

Lene thinks back to her backlog of socks, tunics, dolls, and the quiet desperation on the nuns’ faces whenever they’re mobbed by the children at breakfast. She’s heard them talk about three new infants to take in, and the shortage of bread they’re facing for the week. Donations to the convent are running low. There’s only so much that a skeleton crew of five women can do for an orphanage housing nearly a hundred children. 

“Sorry, Kara, but I have to get these done by tomorrow…”

“Lene, that’s no fair! You can’t play with us kids anymore, you can’t have lunch with us anymore…does this mean we won’t have storytime anymore too?” The little girl’s lip wobbles precariously.

_ But you’re a kid too, _ Lene tells herself. Sewing and running around to look after the younger ones is exhausting work. After dance practice, she has enough time for a small supper before collapsing into bed. Come morning, Lene rises early for a quick bucket bath, maybe some breakfast, then helping around the orphanage and some other things, like her sewing. She used to join in ball games or choir lessons before. Sometimes, she would steal into the small library the convent managed and thumb through the dusty old bookshelves, wondering what sort of knowledge they held. 

What Lene does remember best are the storybooks. Sister Rin, on the days when she could spare the time, would bring in fat books smelling of must and age. The elderly woman would gather them all up right at bedtime and crack open one of those ancient tomes on the condition that everyone be settled inside the covers and listen quietly if they wanted a story. Sister Rin read them everything: dragons curled around mountainous piles of gold, faraway islands shrouded behind foreboding mist curtains, unicorns prancing through moonlit meadows of lavender and primrose, faeries bargaining with people with two fingers crossed behind their backs, and tales of witches and wizards vacillating between providing heroes with great boons, or conspiring against them as the final obstacles in their journeys. 

The younger ones like Kara especially favour the stories about princes, but Lene doesn’t want to dwell on them too much. Princes already exist in their world, and Lene’s had enough of the nuns’ whispering over the current state of royalty (‘terrible, what happened to Sigurd, and I can’t fathom what drove him to betray Eldigan like that’). She doesn’t want to think about the children she’s heard were left behind by war. It reminds her too much of her mother and herself. 

But there aren’t any stories about dancers, are there? They don’t seem to be noteworthy enough to be mentioned, or even for some other characters to show an interest in dancing, unless it’s in the ending pictures illustrating a prince and a princess celebrating their wedding after defeating the story’s villain. Lene may be tired and only six, but she’s had enough about princes, and since Sister Rin is no longer around to read to them at bedtime, Lene can step in to decide what kind of fairy tales can be shared. She’s currently the oldest, after all, and a shaky grasp of reading is better than nothing. 

Hmmm, but she doesn’t have any books with her at the moment…

“Let’s make a deal,” Lene says, mustering up the most grown-up voice she can. “Storytime is still when we go to bed, but you all gotta leave me alone right now for dance practice, and I’ll sew during storytime so I can finish all this. Sound good?”

Kara contemplates the offer by sticking her finger inside her mouth up to the knuckle, sucking pensively. Lene spies her gaggle of friends peeking at them from outside the door, waiting to see if they’ll join them for their game in the garden. A worn leather ball is clutched in a boy’s ( _ Damian, _ Lene remembers. A new kid) arms. 

“Okay,” Kara replies, and runs off to the garden. 

Nightfall comes with the whisper of crickets growing steadily louder outside the convent dormitory. There’s two children to a bed (actually just floor-level cots), and the usual bedtime chaos is muted by the excitement of storytime tempering any potential outbursts. Lene has to check that no one’s snuck any illicit snacks in from the kitchens, lest they all get an earful from the nuns tomorrow after the morning inspection. 

“But where’s the book?” a boy named Kai protests. He’s tall for his age, but skinny like the rest of them, and full of bouncy energy that results in his annoyed bedmate trying to shove him off the bed. “What story are you gonna tell us without a book, Lene?”

Lene blanches; she totally forgot. While no one’s really at a level where they can comfortably read in the first place, they remember the pictures Sister Rin would show to them in the bigger tomes. Sometimes she would fetch simpler storybooks that were mostly illustrated and everyone would  _ ooh _ and  _ ahh _ over the artwork. The oldest books are very sombre and moody in their tone, while the newer ones have cheerfully bright woodcuts. Lene wracks her mind trying to remember any crowd-pleasers that would keep them quiet in bed. 

“Actually,” she says, “I don’t need a book for this one because it’s new.”

The promise of an as yet unheard of story sends an interested ripple through the audience. Blankets shift as the children crawl to the foot of their beds, listening closely. “What kind of new story?” Kara prompts. 

“One about a dancer.”

Now, Lene is a little embarrassed for blurting that particular idea out, but she can’t take it back at this point, because everyone’s eyes and ears are on her. She has to wrack her thoughts for something good enough to keep them entertained. Not for the last time does Lene long for Sister Rin’s patient, dry voice, calm demeanour, and gentle touch as she tries to craft an entire story in three seconds flat. A pause to thread a stitch through a torn shirt helps to buy her some time. 

“Once upon a time,” Lene starts just like Sister Rin used to, “there was a dancer—”

“But we already know this story is about a dancer!” Damian whines from his spot. 

“If you don’t wanna listen then you don’t have to! Lemme get to the point,” Lene huffs in annoyance, pulling on her stitch a little harder than necessary. 

Damian grumbles when the rest of the kids pipe up in agreement with Lene, but thankfully everyone else seems very keen on listening to the rest (well, what she has to make up) of her story. Everyone’s already heard of princes after all; a dancer, her particular fantasy, won’t hurt for a night or two. 

“So, this dancer was really smart and pretty. She lived in a kingdom far, far away—”

“Are you just talking about yourself?” Damian interrupts again, but the indignant howls of the other children shame him into silence. 

“As I was saying,” Lene huffs. “She lived in a kingdom far, far away. It was a beautiful kingdom full of fruit trees and ponies and houses that were all different colours and parrots sang all the time. And there was this really big festival where all the dancers were dancing in. There were lots of different foods like syrup cakes, mint tea, and there were lots of games too, and everyone was having a lot of fun. They were celebrating the kingdom’s anniv-anniver—a-nni-ver-sa-ry.”

She relaxes when the children sink into a happy glow, thinking up the cheerful atmosphere of a festival. Lene remembers the four-interval stitch the nuns used on their own sewing as she finishes the shirt and moves on to a tiny pair of socks. It’s actually rather soothing to talk and sew, even if she occasionally pricks her fingers when her attention wanders, and Lene muses if Sister Rin volunteered for storytime so often because of that sense of peace. After the socks are done, the next item to do is a raggedy old doll that looks very well-loved. 

“The dancers did a lot of complicated dances: they did the flower dance, the lion dance, the water dance, and the hoop dance, and everyone clapped for them because they were really good at them. But suddenly…” Lene pauses at this point. Fairy tales have conflicts in them. Something big happens to spur the characters into action; some villain has to swoop in and muck things up so a plucky protagonist can save the day and make things right. But what can she say? She was hoping for a simple retelling of her fantasies as a dancer, something happy and sweet. Hardship isn’t something she likes to dwell on. But fairy tales are fairy tales, and the children are expecting a story where the characters have to earn their happy ending. At least they think her pause is a sort of dramatic device—everyone leans in eagerly, wanting to hear what comes next. 

Lene wants to congratulate herself for what is surely nothing less than a stroke of genius. “The prince,” she says with great relish, “was  _ kidnapped. _ ”

Gasps flutter around the dormitory, in shock, disbelieving. Fairy tale princes carry swords and do battle with evil-doers; they’re not supposed to be the kidnapees. Such a novelty excites the children’s curiosity to no end. Lene soon finds her stride and begins to spin a tale far more impressive than she’d thought herself capable of, describing a single brave dancer’s quest to save him from the clutches of a greedy dragon living in the bowels of a terrible volcano. The dancer charms allies to her cause, travels across the kingdom on her quest, puts a sphinx to sleep with a special dance, and rescues the prince, to the dorm’s excitement. 

“Do they get married and live happily ever after at the end?” Kara gushes. 

Oh. Lene hasn’t thought that far along. And isn’t that sort of ending a bit  _ clichéd _ by now? 

She’s saved from answering when Sister Marta knocks at the doorframe and reminds them that they should all be asleep by now. Everyone is disappointed that they don’t get to hear the conclusion, but Lene promises to tell them at breakfast, so they hunker down, appeased. The next morning, Marta approaches Lene with an apology. “You shouldn’t have to do all this,” she says, sad-eyed and grey. “You’re just a child yourself. Sewing for them and taking over bedtime…that shouldn’t fall on you. In fact, Sister Dora—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just doing what has to be done,” Lene replies. 

* * *

Lene is ten when a dancer from the castle comes to the convent with a summons. Dancers are a singularly well-connected bunch, often swapping clothes, sharing jobs, and, best of all, information. They’re got contacts throughout Jugdral and it’s said that a dancer can do a spy’s job better and look prettier too. Lene’s asked many passing dancers if they know a woman with green hair likes hers but all she’s gotten so far are nos, their heads shaking with pity as they take in her skinny frame. This particular dancer looks very well-kept, thick dark hair piled high into a gorgeous mane of curls, and the ruby shining at her neck tempts Lene with thoughts of juicy red pomegranates. And yet her expression is so sombre…

“They’ve asked for the girl,” the woman mutters darkly over mint tea with the nuns. They’re meeting in a secluded part of the garden not easily accessible to anyone without a key to the high gate, but Lene’s bartered in enough favours from Damian in exchange for climbing lessons, so shimmying up the garden’s massive date palm wasn’t too hard, at least. Now she’s eavesdropping on the company from behind the safety of a bush. 

“Surely they can’t mean Lene? I thought the minimum was fourteen…how on earth did they find out about her?” That’s Marta’s voice, and Lene’s blood chills when she hears her own name spoken. From their tone, it doesn’t bode well for her at all. 

“They keep an eye on the children here for that reason,” the dancer says after a long, uncomfortable pause. “She’s the oldest, and Saskia, his favourite, is on leave for…well, you know. We tried stalling as best as we could, but it’s impossible to dissuade him when he sets his mind on anything.”

“But to think that he would do this to a child!”

“I know, I know, and I’m so sorry. We’re all sorry. All we can assure is that the payment will be good, and all of us will try to keep her close and protect her. My word is the best guarantee at this point, but no one can stop him from simply walking in and taking her. All that can be done is to prepare.”

“How much time do we have left?”

“A week.”

Lene contemplates that scary new fact over supper later in the evening. The nuns are treating her with kid gloves, and the others pick up on it immediately, but because Lene is so serious and moody, they don’t tease her with accusations of favouritism; instead, they sit back quietly. She doesn’t know what to say to them, but homesickness grasps her immediately the moment a carriage from the castle comes for her. Waving goodbye to the rest of the kids from the single window only intensifies her feelings of dread…but then Lene remembers her (fake) steely insistence that it’s what has to be done. She remembers the dancer saying the pay is good. At the very least, she can send most of it back to the convent for bread, toys, more books, and better clothes than don’t need to be stitched together every week or two. 

When the other dancers at the castle meet her for the first time, there’s a great hue and cry. 

“That utter bastard,” a tall, tattooed man called Mardann weeps.

“To think he would sink so low…gods help us.” A woman whose magnificent jewellery gleams on her dark skin takes Lene’s hands in her own and strokes her cheek sadly. “What is your name, child?”

Lene feels like shrinking into the ground. “Lene…”

“Do you know why you’re here, Lene?”

They don’t sugarcoat her circumstances when they explain that the lord of the castle, Count Bramsel, is someone to stay far, far away from, but they don’t exactly explain much besides him being a bad man. “He mistreats us—especially us gals,” the woman, whose name is Zaki, says balefully. “Don’t you ever let him or his men get you alone with them, understand? Stick close to us at all times. If they try to talk to you or anything else, you let us know.”

“But what if they say I have to go to them alone?”

“We’ll think of something. Don’t worry.”

Lene does worry. It’s impossible not to in a scary new place run by men of ill intent, but all she can do is try to steel herself with thoughts of the orphanage and the money. The dancers are kind to her, at least. They teach her new routines, the best way to make dancing silk flow in the air like a beautiful stream of jewel-toned light, and how to improve her posture, among other things. In return, Lene heeds their every word and falls into her old stitching routine, fixing up torn costumes and ribbons and shoes. They insist she doesn’t have to, and Lene insists right back that it’s the least she can do. Their protectiveness turns to love, and a few peaceful months pass without incident. Lene foolishly forgets to be afraid amongst a newfound source of warmth. 

But one day, an oily-looking seneschal, with an even oilier looking smile, sweeps into the dancers’ changing room and, ignoring their outraged protests, hones in on Lene. 

“Milord has been asking for her,” he says, raking his eyes up and down her body. “Just her.”

“She’s not ready yet—what on earth could Bramsel want when she doesn’t even have slippers broken in? Not even a costume or a routine planned out!” Zaki’s fury radiates like heat off her skin. But there’s fear, too, and when she stands it’s to shield Lene from the seneschal's ugly, hungry gaze. 

“No, no, nothing of the sort…Milord simply wishes to enquire after her progress and see her in person.”

“He can ask us himself.”

“Milord prefers to oversee his investments personally, with minimal interference,” the man continues, relishing the last word so obviously that Lene swallows a lump in her throat. “Your presence is unnecessary.” 

Lene is vaguely aware of a pair of musclebound guards silently looming over them from behind the seneschal before the latter’s hand snatches her arm in a vice grip and yanks her out of the dressing room, ignoring the dancers’ angry howls. The castle passes by in a blur—Lene is too shocked to process much beyond the imminent threat of Bramsel suddenly, terrifyingly, staring her right in the face. And that’s how she finds herself once the movement stops abruptly and she’s somehow smack dab in the middle of a small but lavish audience chamber, with robed men whispering from their seats in the shadows. 

Count Bramsel is an imposing man, obviously used to wealth and good food. His prominent, squared jaw jerks in her direction, and he calls out to her in a rude tone that she never would have guessed a nobleman would talk in. “You there, girl. What’s your name?”

“L…Lene…” She tries hard not to shrink. 

“Lene, is that so…tell me, girl,” as if she hadn’t just informed him of her name not three seconds ago, “you want to be a dancer, yes?”

“Um…I’m still practicing…I’ve got a lot to learn…”

“‘Still practicing,’ she says! Well then! Girl, do you know why I’ve brought you here? A little bird told me that a very special dancer with a lot of potential lay just beyond this castle’s walls, and so I had my men search high and low until they found her. A castle always has a lord, yes, but a castle isn’t a castle without beautiful things to fill it with, like tapestries, and fountains, and jewels, and talented people…do you understand what I mean?”

Lene has a hazy sort of image in her mind of the old illustrations in the books Sister Rin used to read at the convent. Castles are always beautiful according to them, full of gorgeous people and things just like Bramsel says, so there must be some truth to his words. Villains sometimes have castles too, but those are always portrayed as dark and foreboding, often set against a backdrop of cold rain, or darkest night; once, an evil wizard in a particular book had a castle carved deep into a mountainside, and the hero had to navigate an increasingly scary maze of caverns full of monsters and bats to reach him. Count Bramsel’s castle looks rather tame in comparison. There are no flesh-eating creatures waiting behind every corner to eat little girls like her, nor are there witches hoping to snatch up young maidens. The dancers promised to look after her, and Lene trusts their word. But she also remembers their warnings about Bramsel, the nasty way the seneschal laid his eyes on her…all so at odds with the walls’ gilt panelling, jewelled sconces, and richly embroidered curtains. Lene is rooted to the spot as she swallows again. “Y-yessir—I mean, yes, Count Bramsel.”

“Good, good. So, girl, if I’ve brought you here it means you’ve got that potential. But I can’t very well continue to entertain mere potential if I don’t see reason to continue cultivating it now, can I? Why don’t you go on and show me a little dance or two, see if you’ve got what it takes?”

They’re interrupted by the seneschal making an announcement at the entrance. “Milord.” His simpering is starting to grate on Lene. “Javarro’s company has arrived.”

“Can’t they wait longer? I’m busy,” Bramsel snaps, and that momentary flash of anger compared to his previous informality frightens Lene to the point of paralysis, to the point where the warning bells she’d not known to listen to before start ringing alarmingly loud. 

“He’s looking rather cross…claiming he hasn’t been paid on time for services rendered—”

“Then he can come in here and bloody wait for it. For the gods’ sake, it’s my damn castle and I’ll do things how I bloody please. Girl! Who said you had to wait too? Get on with it!”

The demand snaps Lene out of her brief stupor as her body automatically moves into position; she chooses the crane dance, a nice, easy rhythm whose music she’s already memorised, so the lack of a live band isn’t too daunting when she can think about the notes and the pacing to herself. Lene’s arms flutter in an imitation of wings, then she takes long, languid steps as though wading through a marsh. It’s one of the most basic routines and one of the most popular ones too. Maybe she hadn’t chosen dancing out of personal preference, but Lene’s grown to love it in her own way, and soon, her mental state eases into relaxation as she dutifully follows Zaki’s lessons in executing the image of a lovely crane flitting about her watery domain. She’s so focused on her movements that she’s completely ignorant of the chamber’s doors opening to admit a party of ten men and a boy. 

Unfortunately, it means she’s also not paying attention to Bramsel either. 

“So young and yet so talented already! Quite the potential indeed—” he laughs, and the sinister sound stops Lene dead in her tracks as he makes to get up from his seat with a menacing glint in his eyes. But Bramsel’s words suddenly turn into a strangled, choked squawk. Lene spies something shiny glinting near his waist. Bramsel pulls it out to reveal it as the hilt of a small dagger. Blood spurts out of the wound sluggishly. Lene’s eyes widen when the rest of the chamber’s occupants realise what just happened, but the feeling of small, calloused hands wrenching her away only disorients her further. 

“JAVARRO!” Bramsel bellows. Lene doesn’t have time to focus when the world is veering into a blur again, and all she can do is pray her legs will keep up with the force speeding her out of the audience room and into the unknown. 

A cool breeze on her face wakes her up, and the scent of fresh air and flowers calms her stomach. The garden she’s in is lovely—a trellis supports a lush bougainvillea bough, and below that azaleas form a line of red, pink and purple lining the vine covered walls. There are fuchsias too, and night lilies dusted in a fresh coat of dew from the fountain gurgling happily at the garden’s centre. It’s such a calm and soothing place. Such a far cry from the opulence of Bramsel’s audience chamber. Thinking about it makes the all too recent memory of what transpired shoot right down to her gut with a strong lurch, and Lene has to sit down at the fountain’s lip to avoid her shaky legs from giving out beneath her.

“—Alright?” a voice asks. 

She blinks. It belongs to a boy who looks about her age, but skinnier, his face sun-browned and slightly freckled, and his blond hair is short but ragged. There’s an intensity to his eyes that reminds Lene a bit too much of the adults, though. The thought has her hesitating in her answer. 

“Did you stab Bramsel?” is her simple question. She folds her hands on her lap as she looks up at him expectantly. 

“Yeah.” Straightforward, but not bragging…the boy says it so casually, as if his actions didn’t involve blood and an entire room of grown men losing their minds over the castle’s lord being attacked so brazenly in his own domain. 

“Why?”

“He stiffed us on our money, and Javarro says anyone who doesn’t pay us on time’s gotta learn the consequences. And…” That too-adult intensity in his eyes fades to something a little more vulnerable. Lene feels a bit shocked by the change. “The way he was talking about you, looking at you…it was gross. So I did what I had to.”

“But you didn’t really.”

An unhappy look mars the boy’s face as he contemplates Lene, hands clenching and unclenching with what she recognises as agitation, even if he’s obviously trying to school his expression into something inscrutable and aloof. “Well, sorry I helped,” he mutters sulkily. 

“No, no! I didn’t mean it like that!” Lene doesn’t know why she stood up so suddenly, but it’d be a waste not to reach forward for one of the boy’s hands. She squeezes his wrist in what she hopes comes across as gratefulness, or a placating gesture, because even if what he did was exceedingly dangerous, he saved her, in the end. “What I mean to say is thank you. It’s just that…we’ll get into an awful lot of trouble, won’t we? And getting into trouble with someone like Bramsel isn’t something I want to happen to us.” 

The boy’s eyes widen as he stares at Lene’s hand circling his wrist. He stays quiet for what seems like an inordinately long stretch of time, and Lene fears she’s committed some sort of faux-pas by touching him so casually when they’re still very much strangers to one another. She lets go and clears her throat nervously, missing the furrow of his brow as he keeps staring at her fingers. An awkward silence stretches out between them. It’s a situation neither know how to navigate very well, so both settle for sitting down together at the fountain as they ponder over their current state…and what to do next. 

“Well, I know Javarro’s not gonna be happy, but I know he can’t do too much to me in the end. He said I’m special. Said he needs me to learn to be the best in the group, so maybe he’ll get all hot under the collar and yell at me or punish me, but I know it won’t be too bad in the end,” the boy asserts with complete confidence. Lene can’t tell if he’s bluffing to reassure them, or if he’s really so convinced of his immunity in light of the uproar he caused, but Lene still wishes for a smidgeon of that certainty. And as for her…

“I just hope Bramsel won’t be too mad at me,” she mumbles. “Or the other dancers. He’s a bad man just like they said. I don’t want them to get hurt because of me, and I-I don’t want him to ask me to dance again like that.” 

The boy’s staring goes unnoticed as she drops her head down, gloomy, twiddling her thumbs nervously on her lap. To think that she was so dead-set on dancing, finding her mother, learning to be an artist like her, and then finding that the biggest patron of their city is such a disgusting man! Lene feels betrayed by her dreams. She already knew something was afoot from the moment she was whisked away from the orphanage, but having the curtain yanked back on her illusions is a tremendous slap in the face. Hopes of her mother drift far from reach.

His hand on Lene’s shoulder feels tentative and not a little shy, so the movement startles her a bit from her thinking. “They won’t get in trouble. You won’t get in trouble either. I did all of that, and it’s not like that toad Bramsel’s gonna get too far when he’s already mad at Javarro and Javarro’s mad back at him. Let ‘em fight with each other and then they’ll cool down, and you won’t have to worry about a thing.” 

A small trickle of suspicion drips into Lene’s train of thought. Why is he so concerned in the first place? But then she notices his state of dress: he’s caked in dirt, his clothes are terribly sun-bleached, and a long, jagged rip down his front nearly exposes a wiry chest. 

“I can fix that,” she blurts out. 

His eyebrow quirks up. “You don’t have to.”

“Sure I do. Someone’s gotta.” 

And then, a small, tiny sense of understanding passes between them, and it almost feels like a spark. They both smile. 

“What’s your name?” Lene prompts. 

He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and then, as if he’s embarrassed, he hides it behind him. “Ares.”

“I’m Lene.” She grins at him, and it’s the most ease she’s felt like in a long time. “I can sew your shirt up in no time, no sweat. Does two days sound good?”

“Yeah…we’re staying here for about a week before we head out again. B-but we’ll be back after a month. We’ve got our own barracks here and everything.”

Lene wants to ask what a barracks even is, but they’re interrupted by Zaki calling out her name over and over again, clearly distressed. The sudden noise has Ares jumping to his feet, quick as a flash, and making a dash for the vines on the wall. 

“Ares, wait! Your shirt!” Lene calls out to him. 

“Find me back here in two days!” he all but shouts as he tosses his shirt off and scampers up the wall and hoists himself onto the edge.

All Lene can do is gawp, watching Ares’ flight in stupefied amazement—another ten year old with that much agility inspires quite the sense of envy in her—even as Zaki runs up to clutch her to her bosom with a thousand kisses and apologies and relieved sighs. Lene has to push her off gently to retrieve the torn shirt off the floor before the two walk back to the dancers’ quarters hand in hand. 

  
  


* * *

Lene is fourteen when she realises she’s in love with Ares. The revelation stumps her so thoroughly that it brings her to a standstill in the middle of dance practice with Zaki and Rina, with the former clearing her throat to bring Lene back with them from her reverie. 

“Everything all right, Lene?” Zaki’s query is soft and worried. 

“I’m just, uh…” Lene’s stomach thankfully provides an excuse in the form of a harsh rumble. “Hungry. And tired. Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night…”

“Too busy dreaming about Ares?” Rina teases, and though Zaki shushes the other girl promptly, the mere mention of his name still sends a jolt through Lene. The dancers worked hard that day and everyone’s happy to sit down and enjoy the good food the castle specifically sets aside for the corps, but all Lene can do is pick at her plate and sigh. 

“Maybe you’re going to get sick,” Zaki murmurs. She presses a cool hand to Lene’s forehead, and the kind gesture only helps to wrench another sigh out. 

“I can’t get sick now, I still have to meet Ares later,” Lene mutters. 

Rina looks positively gleeful to hear that. Her chest puffs out in what is sure to be a long-winded speech (that Lene’s heard many, many times before) about how Lene just needs to buck up and admit her feelings to him and herself, but Mardann, Zaki’s right hand, gives her a warning in the form of a sharp cough. Rina settles down, grumbling. Lene just sighs again. 

There’s an unspoken agreement between the dancers and Javarro’s band of mercenaries whereupon Lene is allowed to meet Ares in the little garden they first found four years ago—a legacy of Bramsel’s late mother, and they’re lucky he’s got even an ounce of sentimentality left in him because it means he cares enough to keep it tended to, but not enough to frequent it—whenever the mercenaries stay in Bramsel’s castle. As long as both are responsible about their schedules and duties, the adults look away and keep them a secret from Bramsel and his cronies. And those have certainly been some four years! Finding another child close in age in a world full of grownups was the godsend they never knew they needed. Maybe they didn’t have time to do things like play with toys, or run out to the city to explore, or be loud and messy and mischievous, but the moments they were able to spend together provided respite. 

Or at least that’s how it was until recently. They’re both growing, both becoming more aware of the full weight of their responsibilities looming over them, their moods turning sombre and, at times, even dispassionate. The last meeting ended with Ares snapping at Lene when she wheedled him over not getting enough sleep. 

“I can’t waste my time,” he’d growled. “Not when I need to do as much as I can to achieve my goals.”

Today, she’s got a jacket of his with a patch covering up the giant hole he tore in the shoulder during a particularly vicious routing mission against some bandits up north. Lene embroidered a flowered square of cloth in various shades of red, blue, purple and white, like the flowers in the garden.  _ ‘So you can remember me,’  _ Lene wants to say when she hands it over, but her excitement dims considerably when she catches sight of him, scowling, at the fountain. 

“I can’t wear this. The other men will laugh at me if they see me in it,” Ares scoffs when she presents the finished product. Her heart sinks, fears confirmed. 

“Why would they laugh at you?” Lene pouts. 

“Because flowers look silly, Lene. They’re for little girls. I’m a man now, and men don’t wear flowers.”

“Well,  _ I’m _ a girl. Are you saying I’m silly? And I spent a lot of time working on it, so the least you could say is ‘thank you.’” 

“You are most certainly not a girl anymore,” Ares exclaims with a roll of his eyes. But then they widen. He clams up as though having been caught committing some grave mistake. So he turns aside, exhales a mighty harrumph through his nostrils, and glares ferociously at the rippling water as though it personally offended him. 

Lene sighs. “What’s gotten into you lately? You’ve been so moody and  _ mean, _ even when I haven’t said anything wrong! And when I try to ask you, then you just get angrier and you either try to pick fights or you shut up and ignore me. Ares…please. I’m not here to judge. Aren’t we friends? Didn’t we promise to help each other out?” 

“It’s not like that—”

“Then what is it?”

Then he sighs, and drags a calloused hand down his face roughly. Water from the fountain sprays their clothes with a light sheen of droplets, cooling them from the summer’s heat, and adding a deceptively soothing atmosphere to the tension currently unfolding in the garden. She gazes expectantly at him. Imploringly. It’s such a contrast to their previous memories of the place, filled with hushed giggles and snacks traded and games played, that it gives her heartache. 

Ares sighs again. It’s such a terribly grownup thing, to have the weight of your world press down on you to the point of needing to expel all that extra air. “Things are changing, Lene. I don’t even know if we can keep up with this when we have so much to do. I’ve got to focus on Javarro, you’ve got to focus on your dancing…”

“We can do that and still come here, Ares. What are you even saying?”

“Can we?” He finally meets her eyes now, and his own are positively swimming in something that might be regret. “Like I said, you—we’re not children anymore. And that means we have to stop doing things children do and start doing things adults do.”

Lene desperately wants to think her heart can’t fall any lower than it already has, because his words feel like giant cudgels pummeling it further and further down, and she’s already cursing herself for even letting that epiphany cross her mind. But does she even know what romantic love is? It’s not as if Lene has any experience in that area, especially not when most of the others in the castle are either not interested in her, involved with someone else, or  _ too _ interested to the point of being disgusting. The only things that are a certainty is that she cares for Ares, and that his implications of wanting to cut ties hurts badly. 

But then, Lene feels that turn to ire. She’s had quite enough pain for a lifetime. She’s not going to let Ares— _ especially _ Ares—add to it. 

“Well, what about what we want? You’re going on and on about what we ought to do, and about growing up, and duty, but you’ve not even told me once about what you actually _ want,” _ Lene all but shouts, the intensity of her feelings launching her away from Ares into a standing position. Something akin to satisfaction warms her spitefully when she sees his face twist into surprise, never having seen such an outburst from her. 

It’s a short-lived sensation. Her energy fades at the sudden realisation that there’s a lot neither she nor Ares have seen or even know about each other even in their four years of friendship.

Tears threaten the corners of her eyes with hot, salty prickles that sting, and she wipes at them shamefaced, remembering his staunch commitment to being a man now. Adults don’t cry. They suck up their feelings and keep them locked behind a sturdy door because only children can be so free with themselves, because adults have to be stalwart and strong. Lene learned that a long time ago, even if it’s still a hard lesson to grasp, the night she became aware of Sister Rin’s storybooks having lied to her: beautiful castles can still be filled with monsters, the lives of princes and royalty can end with their heads chopped off instead of happily ever after, and quest-goers sometimes finish empty handed, never having found what they sought. Lene clung so desperately to those stories before because they gave her hope. Now, with the future threatening more change, she doesn’t know what she can hold onto anymore. 

Ares reaches out to her shakily. His hand, so much larger now than it was four years ago, closes over her own and gently pulls her back down to sit next to him again. He’s still shocked. 

“What I want,” he admitted, almost whispering, “is to avenge my father.” 

They’re both quiet. She hasn’t let go of his hand. 

Ares continues. “My father died when I was very young. His name was Eldigan—he was a p–knight. He died because someone who he thought was his best friend betrayed him. My mother passed shortly after, and then Javarro took me in to teach me the ways of the sword. I’m forever indebted to him for that…and I’m grateful that I have this opportunity to learn what I can so I can do what has to be done.” 

Lene’s exhalation is gusty and short, and she refrains from rubbing his back in an attempt at consolation. “You keep saying that again…that you want to do that for your father, but it’s because ‘what has to be done.’ Are you sure that’s what you  _ really _ want, Ares?”

“Yes,” he repeats, but Lene swears she can pick out a note of uncertainty in his voice. And he’d been so full of conviction before, too. “And you, Lene? What is it you want?”

“To find my mother. I like dancing, but I became a dancer because the nuns at the orphanage told me she was one. She dropped me off there when I was also very young. Dancers are very well connected, you know; if she’s still alive, then maybe I have a chance to run into her and tell her all that I feel and how much I’ve wanted a mother for so long. Maybe I can have a family and get away from Bramsel and live the life I’ve wanted for myself, and not have to worry so much anymore.”

“You, worry?” Ares almost says it mildly. “Never picked you as the worrying type…but that’s not a very realistic dream, Lene. There are hundreds of dancers all over the world and you’d have to spend a lot of time searching for someone you don’t even know.”

Lene’s scoff turns into a burst of laughter. “Oh Ares, that’s why they’re called dreams. They don’t  _ have _ to be realistic.”

“What’s the point then if they’re not realistic?” 

He doesn’t mean to be malicious, but Lene cuffs his shoulder anyways in light retaliation, even if he brings up a pertinent argument. She thinks back to her cynicism over her childhood stories, and the sense of betrayal over the rosy tint they paint over the lives of their characters. How their hardships always end well for the well-doers and the villains are duly punished. Quests and adventures are justly rewarded. But real life? That’s tougher. There’s a lot of disappointment to go around for more than a few people—the dancers’ corps have plenty of anecdotes attesting to that. 

Yet Lene can’t stay stuck on the bad for too long. Yes, she grew up in an orphanage with no parents to hold her; yes, Bramsel’s castle is run by awful, leering men, hoping to catch her and the others unawares, and Ares, for all his assertions of gratefulness to Javarro, doesn’t seem to notice how hard he’s being pushed for the sake of such a violent goal. But the children at the convent all loved each other and had so much fun. The nuns did everything they could to keep them clothed and fed and warm and entertained, and Lene knows the money she sends back has certainly helped. The dancers, for all the worldly knowledge they’ve acquired through less than ideal experiences, love each other too, and they stick together because of it. And Ares…Lene supposes his thirst for an enemy’s blood comes out of love for his parents, even if he was too young back then as well. 

She can’t say she approves entirely of his logic, but she knows that she loves him now too, so she wants to support him through it. 

“I’ll tell you what,” Lene announces, buoyed by a new confidence. “Maybe we have to start small before our dreams start to look a little more realistic.”

To her utter delight, Ares smiles. “How exactly do you propose that?”

“Oh, it’s actually pretty easy once we break it down: I keep working hard at my dancing until I make enough money to set off on my own, and you do the same.”

“That could take years, Lene.”

“I know, but things don’t just happen overnight, just like how you didn’t pick up a sword in one go and how I’ve been practicing for ages now. For today, I just have to go back to practice after this, and you have to take back your jacket so that you’re not wearing rags all the time with your reckless swinging. I spent a lot of time on that patch and you should be happy someone cares enough at all to do that for you.” She pauses meaningfully. “And you also have to go to sleep on time so that you have enough energy for more practice.” 

“You say it as if you’ve got it all figured out,” Ares exclaimed with a hint of admiration. He was no longer a boy, but at least he wasn’t wearing that tense, sulky expression he’d been sporting as of late, and for Lene, that was enough. 

“I can only hope, but that’s part of the beauty of dreams. They give us something to look forward to. And I promise to help you with yours if you promise the same for me, even if you’ll be mean about it like you were just now.” 

Ares rolls his eyes in what Lene suspects will be a newfound habit of his. But her worries feel significantly diminished now that they’ve talked. She’s not expecting a fairy tale ending or a prince to sweep her off her feet because life isn’t a story, but she supposes that if Ares is there by her side—maybe unexpectedly filling that latter role while Zaki and the dancers are helpful and loving aides, and Bramsel just a villainous caricature to overcome—then perhaps their wishes for the future won’t seem so daunting anymore. 

When she next sews for him (because she needs to and wants to, Lene tells herself), she presses a secret kiss to the flower she’s embroidered over where his heart should go. 

**Author's Note:**

> (Inserts "love u bitch" meme here but with Ares and Lene's heads superimposed and swapped because Lene is def the guitarist here) 
> 
> And now I get back to my enooooormous wip pile! Hope you guys enjoyed ;)


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